The playful oasis at the end of your stressful day.

Brighton Longfellow

Below is another excerpt of a story that I find interesting and would love to expound on more, but this came to me last night and I thought I would share with my Entertainment Escape fans. Please let me know what you think and if you would like more of Brighton Longfellow.

Brighton Longfellow never wanted to be known for his father’s money. He never wanted anything – or anyone – he couldn’t get. A 6 story mansion, a 60 foot yacht, or a 6 foot tall Swedish model. If it could be bought, it belonged to Brighton James Longfellow.

************************************************

Brighton wakes in a thick, humid sweat and sits upright. A veil of bodily fluid sticks to the purebred billionaire. He wipes the slime across his face to feign a moment’s relief. Though his sheets are some of the thinnest and lightest on the market, he peels them from his bony, bare torso. He nearly trips as he unravels the blanket from his left ankle while attempting to dismount his mattress in a particularly stuporous condition. He clutches a clump of disheveled hair and slumps toward the medicine cabinet. Brighton slinks across the sink at the other side of his high rise studio and reaches for his aspirin with a trembling hand.

“This cannot be happening. I have no idea what I did last night.” He tosses back two pills and slurps a mouthful of water from the faucet. After splashing cool water on his face, he sees a lump in his bed. Two lumps near the pillows and tight curves all the way down. “Hey,” he yells or at least he thinks he is yelling. He squeezes that tuft of hair in apology. “Come on, that’s not how this works.” I’m not sure what we did, but I’m sure I told you the rules. No sleepovers. You gotta go.”

As he approaches the bedside, Brighton feels the same warm slime when he woke now dripping between his bare toes. Brighton struggles to look down because thinking about what it could be fills his nostrils with that metallic rot of a penny factory.

In the sobering light of the mid-afternoon, Brighton begins to gather his surroundings. The hands he almost uses to lift the blanket off the girl in his bed are stained with blood. Looking past his hands, Brighton sees the crimson river of life pouring into a pool beside his bed and he is standing in it. The white sheets are pink. Brighton staggers in nausea, slips in the sanguine fluid and smacks his tuft against the bedframe of his blemished bed…